Monsteration

Once a month I become a despot.  Real thuggery oozes out of every pore.  One glance and the foundations of my home shake; one snarl and small rodents flee back to their holes in the wall.  My body changes shape and swells; my head can turn 360 degrees and my tongue can lash out and strangulate at will.  Monsteration has occured.  And  it feels good!
Why is it then that during this Hyde phase none of the men in my life understand that it is best to obey or avoid? Why is it that none of them understand they cannot win and whatever they do will not be right?  I am very content to wallow alone  in my woe of water-retention and pain watching "Beaches" and eating chocolate.  I am more than happy to read Jilly Cooper - alone in misery.  Why then does it seem that during my "Monster Inc" week I am subjected to: "Why is there nothing in the fridge?" or "God you look a bit of a minger, Mum!" or even worse "Have you got time to sit around and do nothing?"  Then they seem surprised and hurt that I rise up like the Kraken  to offer them helpful hints such as "I would start running now if I were you!" or "Live my life for once! I cook, clean, iron and sew with no thanks" generally accompanied by loud, rasping sobs  and some wild arm gesticulations.  My eldest has yet to realise at this point you do not interject with:: "Iron? Sew? When? We don't even have an ironing board and when you last stitched a badge on for me it fell off!" It takes narrowing of  my eyes and hissing for him to walk off hands raised in surrender saying: "You are so weird! So touchy! Get a life!"
Well yesterday, I felt that perhaps I could manage the desire to bite small objects and redirect my energy and take my boys to Chav City our nearest town. At least there, in that hellhole, I would fit in as I had begun to develop a crazed look of violence; had donned a" hoodie" and was walking with a strange rolling gait trousers halfway down my backside - "bowling" I believe the term is affectionately known as.
All begun well.  "Nandos" calmed the bubbling unreasonable rage as I devoured carbohydrates to prevent the Robert  Louis Stevenson morph from man to beast. Shoe shopping quenched the acidic sarcasm and a large glass of wine soothed my aches.  However, W H Smiths was where the "change" started.  After rounding up my posse, pulling my eldest twin away from Ms E L James' stand by his ear, discovering the youngest trying to convince an eldery lady to buy him a magazine and eventually tracking down the eldest propped up by his shoulder against a stand, running his fingers through his mop and chatting to a blonde, I announced that we were going to the classic section.  I marched with authority up the stairs and turned. Not one of the blighters had obeyed!
On arriving home, I handed them all a small suitcase and a book. They looked down at the suitcase and looked back to me.  I pointed to the outhouse (small converted garage/playroom) in the garden. "Enjoy reading your classic!" I grinned. They obeyed this time.  Each had received a copy of "A Brave New World", I do dearly hope the irony was not lost on them.